A Player's Notes

Candid observations on life in the NBA, from a man who sometimes experiences it

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Before I begin, a disclaimer: I am no NBA mainstay. I've never been the guy who signed a multiyear, guaranteed contract that would pay him whether he a) played hard every night, leading his team to victory and timeless glory, or b) gained seventy pounds of "sympathy weight" while fathering thirteen children in six months. My stints in the NBA have been transitory: a half season here, a ten-day contract there. This nomadic journey has been bad for my checking account but good for my stockpile of observations on the bizarre world of professional basketball.

Playing in the pros hasn't been quite like I expected it would be. (Expected may be the wrong word. I don't know that a skinny white kid from a town of seven hundred in Kansas can ever "expect" to play in the NBA.) I thought the lifestyle would be ridiculous--a fairy tale almost. But three years in, I've never been asked to participate in an orgy. I'm still waiting for someone to assault a coach. And I've yet to observe a teammate retiring to a bathroom stall to snort cocaine off a cheerleader's cleavage.

The casual fan assumes that the average professional basketball player is an imbecile. On occasion, that assumption is correct. But not usually. I've played in two separate minor leagues, for three different European clubs, and for somewhere between three and five NBA teams (depending on one's definition of the term preseason), and most of my teammates have been surprisingly intelligent. Which makes sense, really. Anyone who plays basketball at a high level must remember countless plays, defensive schemes, and opponents' tendencies. (Obviously, my standards for intelligence are not exactly Ivy-esque.)

That said, many players are not particularly tuned in to the world around them. In one of my career stops, I found myself party to a debate regarding the 2004 presidential election. As I sat at my locker, wondering whether I would get cut anytime soon, one of my older teammates sauntered into the locker room and began quizzing each player about his candidate of choice. His was a test with an agenda; he backed up his argument for the Democrat by telling the mostly black audience that they would be fools to vote Republican. As he worked his way around the room, only a few of those at semirapt attention said they would vote for George W. Bush (tax-bracket concerns), with most of the respondents professing their support for John Kerry. Meanwhile, one of my teammates was looking more and more confused. Eventually, he stood up with an air of exasperation and said, "I don't know what the hell you all are talking about. I'm voting for Kerry Edwards."

TIME-OUTS: REALLY LONG. KIND OF BORING.

I think the standard NBA time-out is two and a half minutes long. Of course, I'm probably wrong, because I didn't research that number at all. But it feels right. Whatever their length, time-outs are obviously a necessary evil. We players are weak-minded souls who are unfamiliar with the intricacies and nuances of basketball after participation in only several hundred games, so we need the guidance of a man in a suit and tie to help us in our quest for a full understanding of the sport.

I jest, of course. I'd like to keep playing pro ball; it probably wouldn't be my best move to trivialize the importance of the coach. However, a team does generally figure out what it needs to do over the course of an eighty-two-game schedule. Thus, by the time game number sixty-five rolls around on a Monday in Indianapolis, the man in charge may not have much to say by the sixth time-out of the night. Fortunately, those in charge of NBA arenas take care of us. We, too, enjoy the occasional bit of time-out entertainment--the dance team, the dunking mascot, the hot-dog race. But more than anything, we love the kiss cam.

Early in my half season with the Phoenix Suns, I routinely paid attention during time-outs. I hadn't figured out that a big part of the genius of Coach Mike D'Antoni was his hands-off approach when the team was rolling along. He had that year's MVP, Steve Nash, at the point, so there often wasn't much to be said in the huddle. During one break in the action, I was staring intently at the dry-erase board on which D'Antoni was diagramming a play. Because I was so focused on understanding what my compatriots would be doing when they got back on the court, I didn't notice that twenty-five seconds into the time-out, the coach and I were the only people still paying attention. When I looked up at the players' faces, all I saw were Adam's apples. The entire team was watching the drama unfold as the kiss cam captured awkward couples making out for the enjoyment of everyone in the arena. The action reached its climax with a dry peck between two septuagenarians. I don't think I saw another play drawn up that season.

THE GROUPIE SCENE: NOT AS INTERESTING AS YOU THINK

I think the scenario that most people envision is as follows: After each road game, NBA players shower and then return to the hotel, where they disperse in good-natured groups to search for food and, potentially, female companionship, the quest for the latter made much easier because the players are recognizable public figures known for being impressive physical specimens and, well, rich.

I see three flaws in this vision of the NBA social scene. First, the twenty-one-to-thirty-year-old female demographic is not that interested in pro basketball. (I feel like that's the age when one would be a groupie, if one were to make that lifestyle choice.) As far as I can tell, the only people who would be able to pick out a player's face are the rich folk who can afford to sit courtside (older white men and their wives) and the die-hard fans who never miss a game on TNT (fourteen young black men and their respective girlfriends). The target audience--for sex, that is--doesn't watch the NBA.

Second, the players often don't like one another that much, destroying the pack mentality that would seem to increase the hookup chances for everyone. The days of a table for twelve at the nearby steak house followed by a team visit to a local club are either over or never happened. Many NBA players are like corporate entities all to themselves. They have their minions (posses), handlers (agents), and bosses (wives). Postgame is a time to analyze the night's work as it applies to potential shoe deals, not to fraternize with the idiots who didn't pass them the ball.

Third, and most important, NBA teams fly to the next city--or return home--immediately after a road game. Yes, it's possible that some hijinks can break out when the team arrives the night before a game. But most professional athletes do attach some importance to the concepts of rest and preparation, especially one who needs to maintain his 17.9-points-per-game average in the hopes that the owner will turn a blind eye to the weapons charge and sign him to a six-year contract next summer. As such, many players are unlikely to give the average groupie the attention she needs with a game waiting the next day.

Don't get me wrong: NBA groupies do exist. They're just not as omnipresent as one might think, nor is the methodology as coarse as legend has it. Players cultivate these "relationships" over months, even years. It could take an entire career to build up a stable of reliable contacts in each city. Except for Sacramento. No hope there.

FANS: WHAT THE HELL?

I must tread lightly here. A player's relationship with his fans is a tenuous one. We are both grateful for and confused by the adulation. After all, we were fans once, too. I cried like an infant when Duke beat my then-beloved Kansas Jayhawks in the 1986 Final Four. I understand how important it is to identify with something larger than oneself. Then again, in 1986, I was eight. It's hard for me to imagine getting too worked up about a basketball game as an adult.

I've seen ridiculous fan behavior at every level. While playing in Greece, I saw a group of fans tear a row of seats from their moorings and launch them onto the court to protest a bad call. In Spain, I watched a man whisper something into the ear of his nine-year-old daughter before she sprinted to courtside and flipped me off with both hands--during warm-ups. In college, I was asked to take a Sharpie to two of the more distinguishing parts of the female anatomy--on more than one occasion.

But those incidents, while absurd, seem excusable. The fans involved were young, dumb, or foreign (sometimes two of the three). In the NBA, the behavior might not be quite as outlandish, but it is often just as awe inspiring, if only for the types of people who participate.

The Phoenix Suns have a charity auction every year. The year I played for the team, one of the prizes was the chance to accompany the team on a road trip. The winner, a middle-aged man, rode on our charter plane and took part in most of the activities along the way--the ride to the hotel on the team bus, the shootaround on game day, et cetera. I think he even stole a glimpse of the postgame showers, just to confirm a few stereotypes. Not a bad prize. (Except for seeing me naked. Nobody wins there.)

This guy's dress and appearance screamed "successful-businessman type." Since I often listen to screaming apparel, I accepted that analysis. He had probably made hundreds of important decisions in his life, met thousands of people, and made a fair amount of money along the way. But it was obvious that all of this was pushed to the back of his mind when he got to meet Amare Stoudemire.

Again, I understand the idolization of athletes. But I think the idolatry should stop at a certain age. And that age is not sixty.

This fellow did not agree with me. When he was introduced to Stoudemire, his eyes lit up as if his wife had just given birth to their firstborn. He peppered Amare with questions. He got his picture taken with him. Generally, he acted like an eight-year-old. It was obviously the best moment of his, well, month, anyway.

And, I suppose, good for him. Who am I to judge? It's not that I don't appreciate the man's adoration of Amare Stoudemire. I just don't understand it. If I wanted to be an ass, I would ask if it really makes sense for a middle-aged man to be awed by a younger man who happens to be really good at putting a ball through a hoop suspended ten feet above the ground. But since I have no desire to be an ass, I will simply applaud that man. And take his money (via ticket sales, merchandising, and concessions). I'm not going to mug him.

Some of my former teammates might, though.

* At press time, Mr. Shirley, a six-ten forward, was unsigned for the 2006--07 season. Interested GMs may contact him at MySpace.com/PaulShirley. Meanwhile, he'll be working on his book, Can I Keep My Jersey?, due out in the spring.